


Home Visit from the Home Office

by notoneforreality



Series: R&D (Relationships and Dynamics) [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autistic Character, Bondlock, Established Relationship, Gen, James is confused, James is ready to fight The British Government, James meets Mycroft, James' perspective, M/M, Mycroft is a Known Entity, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes, Q is Autistic, Shovel Talk, Sibling Relationship, Single-handedly, Sort Of, Stimming, autistic traits, but his reasons for wanting to speak to Q are not, caring boyfriend, if Q needs help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: James is startled by an apparently benevolent break in to Q's flat. Q is more irritated than concerned, and the British Government just wants some help with a birthday present.In which James learns some things about Q.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: R&D (Relationships and Dynamics) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790158
Comments: 7
Kudos: 329





	Home Visit from the Home Office

James takes two steps into the flat and stops dead. He knows who the man is – sat on the edge of Q’s battered old couch with his umbrella like a cane under crossed hands – but he doesn’t know why or how he’s here, in the flat in Stratford that Q has armed to the teeth.

“Sir?” James stands to attention, under the assessing gaze of the British Government, and frowns. He hasn’t done anything to warrant so much as M’s direct involvement in at least three weeks. “Can I help you?”

The British Government presses his lips together. “I was looking for your Quartermaster. I was under the impression this was his residence.”

His face gives away nothing except the impression of age and authority, so James scans for anything else that would give him a clue how to proceed here. Nothing much springs to mind. The most personal thing he gleans from the man’s appearance is the suggestion of marriage, although James is aware of the advantages of a wedding band on a single man. Not that he uses them, that’s always been more of Four’s gambit.

He’s used to more luxury than Q’s worn out, black leather sofa; James can tell that much. His suit is a dark grey three-piece with a deep blue tie and matching pocket square, and the gold chain of a pocket watch glints under the half open jacket. The hooked handle of the umbrella is a mottled, ribbed wood, and the accessory is supporting more weight on it than a mass-manufactured style.

“Yes, sir,” James says. He keeps his face as blank as he can manage, brain still running through all the possible explanations for the presence of the British Government. “One of the projects he’s overseeing took a turn for the worse, and he’s been kept up at work.”

He scans the open plan living and dining area for the cats, but there’s no sign of them. Upon closer inspection, white fur at the bottom of the dark grey suit trousers show that there was some feline interaction. On another sweep, James realises the door to Q’s office is closed. At least there are bowls in there for Ada and Charles, if they’ve been in there for any length of time.

“Double-oh Three has just boarded her return flight from Agadir,” the man says, as though that’s common knowledge that anyone should be aware of. James doesn’t even know how other agents’ missions are going unless he’s with them or stood over Q’s shoulder. “I was expecting him home soon.”

As if summoned, a shadow falls across the light filtering through the textured glass of the front door, and a key scrapes against the lock.

“James, did you deactivate the–” Q’s talking even before the door is open, but then he spots the man on the sofa and shuts up.

Three different reactions would all come under the canopy of expected: a polite and formal interaction as befitting of that between an employee and their boss’s boss’s boss’s boss; aggression towards an unknown having made it through the security; or confusion as to who this person was, and how they’d made it in.

Instead, Q slumps and rolls his eyes, and then tells the British Government to piss off.

Over twenty years’ experience in the field, acting and reacting and hiding in plain sight, and it takes everything James has not to gape. As it is, he feels his eyebrows twitch. He retreats a few paces towards the window, where he can survey both men at the same time without batting his head between them like he’s trying to follow a tennis match.

“What do you want?” Q’s voice is sharp as he ignores the uninvited guest and marches through to the kitchen area, pulling out two mugs from the cupboard and flicking the kettle on. One fist knocks against his collarbone, the sound dull and hollow.

“A favour.”

The kettle burbles.

“I don’t owe you one.”

“No, I’d owe you.”

“I have better things to do.” Q opens the fridge for milk, fist still beating by his shoulder. “And stop shutting my cats in the office just because you don’t like them.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking for, yet.”

James gives up and joins Q in the kitchen, finding the teabags in their jar and dropping one into each mug. He mutters, “Are we not offering him a drink?”

Q doesn’t bother keeping his voice down. “Not until he learns to knock like a normal person.”

That earns a scoff from the man, the most human thing he’s done since James arrived. “Since when have we ever been normal people?”

“Not for lack of trying on my part,” Q says, pouring the water so James can add milk to his own drink. His fist drops for a moment, and then he reaches up to tangle his fingers in his hair.

The man rolls his eyes. “You hacked MI6 because Sherlock said you couldn’t.”

Several thoughts chase themselves through James head, about hacking MI6 and the name Sherlock. Then Q is handing him the sugar bowl with the smallest hint of a grin hovering around the corners of his mouth.

“And he was only one who got caught at it.” He manages to quell his amusement, his lips back in a flat line. “What favour?”

“Anthea,” the man starts, and Q cuts him off.

“No. She can do her own dirty work, and yours.” Q picks up his mug and cradles it to his chest with the hand not caught in his hair. Still not looking at the couch, he marches towards the office. “You can see yourself out.”

The British Government uses his umbrella to push himself to his feet, and James pushes his own feet into the ground, resisting the instinct to cover Q’s back. Still, he reaches under the sink and palms the pistol stashed for emergencies. Q would kill him for opening fire in his flat, but he’d rather be armed, just in case whatever is going on goes south.

“Ford.”

Q stops and turns, eyes already rolling, and James stops too. Several pieces of the puzzle fit together.

“Mike,” he says, voice mocking. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t call me Ford,” Q retorts. He tugs on his hair, hard, and James can see where the strands are biting into his finger.

“Would you rather Sherrinford?”

“I’d rather Q, as you well know, Mycroft. Even Sherlock manages to remember.”

More of the puzzle slots into place, and James stows the pistol back under the sink. Q’s eyes flicker towards him at the movement, but James just takes a sip of his tea and keeps watching.

Mycroft makes a face. “Must you insist on tying your entire identity to your job?”

Q gives him a flat look, more unimpressed than any expression James had earned on returning sans the entirety of whatever kit Q had sent out with him. In response, Mycroft’s expression takes on a shade of chagrin.

“It’s Anthea’s birthday soon,” Mycroft says. When Q doesn’t immediately try to turn him out, again, he goes on. “She would appreciate a holiday without any interruption from work.”

Q sighs, long suffering. His hand falls down to join the other, wrapped around the mug. “You want a passport?”

Mycroft dips his head. “She’s from Greece, originally,” he says. “Her birthday’s next Friday.”

“If there’s any sort of Situation–” The capital letter is audible. “–anywhere in the world, between now and then, that takes priority.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft says.

The two of them exchange nods, understanding passing between them, just beyond James’ comprehension. He thinks he’s managed to make it through the whole interaction mostly unnoticed, as Mycroft reaches the door, but then the cold, assessing gaze is turned on him again.

“If you ruin this,” Mycroft says, not even bothering to put any sort of warning tone in his voice. “I will ruin you.”

Any number of things in the flat could have given the game away: the single bedroom with two bedside tables; the empty container of the pho that Q hates almost falling out of the bin; the four sets of shoes on the rack, in two different sizes; the old dog tags hung over the painted canvas above the telly. Although, James doesn’t think the human embodiment of the British government would have really needed any of those clues. He had probably been aware of ‘this’ since James had updated his next of kin, especially if James’ suspicions are correct.

“Yes, sir.” He wraps his hand more firmly around his mug, and then strides across the room to wrap his arm around a resigned Q. “Understood.”

The British Government closes the door behind him with a soft click, and James watches his shadow disappear behind the glass. Q sags into him, swigging his own tea.

“I’m going to kill him.” There’s no force behind the words, and James grins.

“I didn’t know you had brothers, Sherrinford,” he says, cheerful.

Q groans, but there’s an appraising edge to his expression. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember Sherlock.”

“I did wonder how you two knew each other, at the time.” James pulls Q with him as he takes the last few steps needed to reach the office door. “And why you agreed to help him, and why we were told to let him go.”

He opens the door, and the cats bolt out as soon as there’s enough of a gap between it and the frame. Charles streaks for the kitchen and leaps up onto the counter, whilst Ada winds her way around their legs.

“He only managed to get as far as he did because he used my framework.”

“You’ve hacked into Six, before?”

“When I was fifteen.” Q grins, wicked. “And they still don’t know about it. Why do you think the first thing I did was improve the cybersecurity?”

“You are entirely too brilliant for anyone’s good,” James says. Q turns red. James will never stop revelling in how easy it is to make Q bashful. “But your office can go without your brilliance for an hour or ten.”

Q protests but James drags him away from the office and back to the couch, throwing both of them down onto it and settling into the leather the way it deserves. If Q thinks he’s coming home from a thirty hour shift, just to disappear into his office and do more work, he’s very much mistaken. His protests die pretty quickly when James hauls him up so Q’s draped half over him, and Ada comes to perch on the back of the couch, just above their heads. Q’s falling into unconsciousness already, and James smiles down at him, just as Charles returns from the kitchen to claim the inch of his lap that isn’t taken up with Q.

The unexpected visitor has upset his plans for the evening; it’s too late to even catch the final round of Pointless, but The Chase should be starting soon on plus one, and that will do just as well.

He’s always fancied Bradley Walsh more than Alexander Armstrong, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep notes! Athough not so many this time:  
> \--Bond is aware that this man sitting (somehow) on Q’s couch is literally the British Government but has no idea how he got through all the security or why tf he’s here and Q is still at work and he doesn’t want to deal with this he just wanted to sit and watch Pointless with the cats but no  
> And then Q comes home and Bond is like ‘oh great now Q’s going to say what’s happening and I’ll get an explanation and we’ll have a formal conversation bc this man is Very Important’ but Q just rolls his eyes and tells the British Government to piss off and twenty years in the field is not long enough for Bond to keep up with whatever the fuck is going on here  
> \--I realise that Sherrinford as proposed by William S Baring-Gould in 1962 was the eldest brother, but nothing is real and I do what I like so Q is the baby brother  
> \--I think you should all be quite proud of me that I resisted the urge to make a pun about the Holmes Office


End file.
